


How I Met Your Mother

by maple_penny



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maple_penny/pseuds/maple_penny
Summary: The only reason Scott purchased a king sized bed for his daughter was so that he could lie down with her and read her bedtime stories.“Which one will it be tonight, miss?” he asks later that evening, gesturing to the wide range of children’s books organized on the bookshelf.“Hmm…” she ponders. Her eyebrows furrow and her lips are pursed. She looks like she’s making the biggest decision in her life. “None of them.”“None of them? Not evenLucy Mouse Keeps a Secret?”“Nope.”“Why not?” Scott asks, his back hunched in sadness.“Because I want to hear a different story.”“A different story, eh? And what story might that be?”“How you and Mommy met.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> First of all, I would like to say a huge thank you to everyone who clicked on this fic. I hope you will go on to read the rest of this chapter.  
> The last time I wrote a work of fiction was in my middle school English class, so please bear with me. English also isn't my first language, therefore there may be some grammatical errors along the way. I'll do my best to proof read every chapter thoroughly so the errors do not distract you guys :)
> 
> Please feel free to tell me what you think in the comments section down below!

There is a built in window seat filling in the recess of Scott’s living room window. It’s a simple little thing: cream with two red cushions that provide a pop of color, and… nothing else. Scott doesn’t spend all that much time perched on this window seat. First off, it is far too short. Even when he positions himself so that he is seated, upper body perpendicular to the seat, at the very end of the it, he can’t straighten his legs. Plus, the seat’s cushioning isn’t all that great. Scott would much rather lounge on his sofa, which has springs so old that he sinks to the floor whenever he sits on it, or his bed. Despite all this, whenever it is time for his daughter to come home, Scott settles himself down on the window seat, a book ready in hand. When he is feeling extra impatient, he’ll even turn on some classical music. He finds that the soothing cadences of Mozart’s symphonies--

_Oh, who am I kidding?_ Scott thinks, tossing his book onto the ground. 

The book lands with a thump on the polished, wooden floor right as the symphony reaches the climax. Scott knows he’s not going to read a single word out of that book. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t even know which book he just flung onto the ground. He had just grabbed the first book that caught his eye the instant he received the call from his daughter informing him that she had reached London. The book might not even be his. Scott had been sliding chocolate chip cookies onto the cooling rack when his phone started buzzing. Since the bookshelf that is closest to the kitchen has been taken over by Tessa’s books…

_Oh no._

Scott rushes to inspect the book that he had carelessly tossed onto the floor. Fortunately, the book looks perfectly fine, though Scott swears it is giving him a look of disapproval.

_The same disapproving look that Tessa would have given me if she were here_ , Scott smiles. He absentmindedly pats the book a couple of times.

* * *

Less than 30 minutes later, Scott is sprinting towards the front door. Tessa’s book, which has already been the victim of his impatience once, crashes onto the floor once more. It’s silly, but Scott jogs a couple of steps backwards and whispers a sheepish “Sorry, T!” 

When he swings the front door open, so the back door of the car does as well. Scott spots a pair of cherry sandal that dangle out of the backseat as his daughter wiggles out of the car. In so many ways, she’s identical to him. However, the way she cautiously scoots herself, one millimeter at a time, towards the edge of the car seat until both her feet are planted firmly on the ground before she even thinks about hopping out is one of the personality traits that she acquired from her cautious mom.

“Hi, Daddy!” she waves as soon as she shoves the door close.

Scott still remembers the first time his daughter said that word to her. 

_Daddy._

At the time, the word had flown from the tip of his daughter’s tongue straight to his heart, making it clench with panic and explode with joy at the same time. One of the greatest surprises of fatherhood, in his opinion, is that even now that word has the same effect on him as it did that first time.

“Hey, peanut!” Scott hollers. He skips down the stairs to meet his daughter in the middle of the driveway. Her little feet pitter patter on the concrete as if she’s got motors attached to her ankles. How such a little person with such tiny feet and short legs could run so fast Scott had no clue. She must have fallen asleep in the car ride over to Ilderton, because her ponytail is not even in a ponytail anymore. Strands of hair keep falling in front of her face. She hastily brushes them away and opens her arms wide as she reaches the finishing line of her short marathon.

That was one of the qualities that she had inherited directly from him. She loves hugs. Good thing too, because his daughter gives the best ones.

Scott lets out an exaggerated grunt as his daughter slams into his chest. She squeezes him tight. “I missed you,” she says. 

“I missed you too.” Boy, was that an understatement. Scott is certain there is no word that can be used to describe just how much he missed his daughter whenever she was away. 

“Hello to you too.”

His arms still secured around his daughter, Scott glances up and is met with Chiddy’s mischievous grin. Hanging from Chiddy’s arm is a bright aqua bag. Every inch of the bag is covered with silver and gold glitter, save for one area in the middle that is taken up by a giant butterfly. Scott has heard his daughter state that “there is no such thing as too much glitter” on one too many occasions, but this bag looks like a can of glitter threw up on it. 

“Hey, Chiddy,” Scott greets. “How are you doing?” He reluctantly ends his hug with his daughter and goes in to hug Chiddy instead. 

Chiddy gives Scott’s back a couple of firm pats. “Good, good.” 

“Your wife’s good too? The baby’s due any day now, right?”

Chiddy nods. “Any day now. God,” he chuckles. “I don’t think I’m ready for this. I don’t remember anything about taking care of a newborn.”

“I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it after a couple of days,” Scott reassures Chiddy. Scott then starts to laugh at his own advice. “I say with absolutely no experience.” 

“You two aren’t thinking of having another kid?”

“Not sure,” he shrugs. “We’ve talked about it, but…” He glances over at his daughter, who had gotten tired of listening to grown-up talk and was now crouched down, collecting pebbles off of the driveway. “Have you guys come up with a name yet?”

“No,” an exasperated voice shoots up from down below. Scott and Chiddy both glance down at Scott’s daughter, who is looking up at them with the most adorable, fed-up look Scott has ever seen. “And I gave them so many suggestions too. Minnie Mouse, Maisy Mouse, Angelina Mouse, Sheila Mouse...” she starts to list, ticking them off one by one using her fingers. “That way, the baby and I can be mouses together!”

“Mice,” Chiddy gently corrects.

“Oh. That way, we can be mice together!”

“You’re a mouse?” Scott gasps in fake surprise. “I thought you were a peanut!”

Scott wonders if it is possible for a heart to literally burst from feeling too much joy from a child’s laughter.

* * *

The only reason Scott purchased a king sized bed for his daughter was so that he could lie down with her and read her bedtime stories.

“Which one will it be tonight, miss?” he asks later that evening, gesturing to the wide range of children’s books organized on the bookshelf. 

“Hmm…” she ponders. Her eyebrows furrow and her lips are pursed. She looks like she’s making the biggest decision in her life. “None of them.”

Scott pouts. “None of them?”Had his daughter already grown too old for bedtime stories? He had heard from Patch that by the time Billie-Rose was eight, she refused to be tucked into bed, saying that she’s a big girl that can go to bed by herself. Scott’s daughter is only six, but she was always more mature than her peers. The thought that she might now find it embarrassing that her dad reads story books to her at night saddens him greatly. “Not even _Lucy Mouse Keeps a Secret_?”

“Nope.” Oblivious to her dad’s disappointment, she flashes a wide grin, the gap where a baby tooth used to be reminding Scott that his baby girl was growing up. 

Scott does his very best to hide his dejection as he drags his feet back to the bed. He plops himself down on the mattress. His daughter squeals as she is launched up into the air. “Why not?” Scott asks, his back hunched in sadness.

“Because I want to hear a different story.”

Every single gloomy cloud that had accumulated in Scott’s heart is chased away by that one sentence. “A different story, eh?” He rolls onto his side and props himself up using his elbow. “And what story might that be?”

“How you and Mommy met.”

Scott’s eyes widen in surprise. “Your mom and I?”

His daughter bites her lower lips. “Yeah?” she squeaks with uncertainty. 

Scott chuckles as old memories start seeping back into his mind. “Your mom and I, eh? That’s a long story. You sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes!” she exclaims.

“Alright,” Scott shrugs. “If you say so. Let’s see now… well. I guess it all started when I was three years old.”

“Three? That’s when you were even littler than I am!”

“It sure was. It all started when I was three years old. That was when your Grandma Alma put me in my first skating class. I _hated_ it.”

“I don’t want to go!” Scott recalls his three-year-old self grumbling. It was the same routine every single day. Him sitting on the front porch with his arms crossed, his mom standing in the backyard with a tired look on her face, and his brothers about ready to kick his butt out of the house.

“Fine,” his mom sighed, rubbing her temples with one hand. “But just so you know, Scott, you’re not going to be able to play hockey if you don’t know how to skate.”

“Like how you can’t go en pointe if your ankles aren’t strong enough?” Scott’s daughter asks. 

“Exactly,” Scott says, bopping her on the nose with his index finger. She scrunches her nose, but in a playful way--not in an annoyed way. “I hated the idea of figure skating, but I wanted to play hockey and didn’t want the big boys to make fun of me for not being able to skate. So, I decided to give it a shot.”

“And you liked it?”

“I don’t know. I liked the feeling of gliding on the ice. I reveled in the feeling of--”

“What’s reveled?” she interrupts. She quickly slaps her hand on her mouth, her eyes widening comically. At times like this, she is her mother’s daughter through and through. “Sorry for interrupting, Daddy.” The sound comes out muffled, eliciting a hearty laugh from Scott. 

“It’s alright, peanut. Reveled means ‘to enjoy.’”

“Oh.”

Scott gives her daughter a fond smile before continuing the story. “I reveled in the feeling of being able to go faster than I could on land. That’s all I wanted to do, actually: go as fast as I could. Well, that and stir up as much trouble as I could. I stopped taking classes seriously once I could skate. I wasn’t interested in the jumps or the spins. But I was competitive. Fiercely competitive, in fact. I had zero interest in becoming a figure skater, but I saw what the other kids were able to do, and I wanted to be able to do it too. Not only that, I wanted to be able to do it better than them.”

This is supposed to be a bedtime story, but Scott’s daughter has never looked more awake. “And then what happened?”

“Well…”

Eight-year-old Scott had promised himself in front of the mirror that he would quit skating once he turned ten years old. He announced his plans to his parents one evening at the dinner table. 

“I’m going to quit skating after this year,” he said. His hands were placed on his lap and back was straight. He wanted his parents to take him seriously. He wanted them to understand that this was not one of his temper tantrums--it was a serious decision he had made after careful consideration.

Alma slowly lowered her fork and knife on the table. “But I thought you enjoyed skating, Scott,” she pointed out. She didn’t look angry, but Scott thinks there might have been a flash of disappointment in her eyes. “And you’re so good at it too.”

“I want to play hockey,” he stated firmly. “I don’t want to skate anymore. I only took it because I needed to learn how to skate. Now that I’m good at skating, I want to focus on playing hockey. Just hockey.”

There’s a ruffling of blankets as Scott’s daughter sits up in bed. She positions her pillow against the headboard and leans against it. “But you ended up just skating instead.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I met a beautiful girl at the rink one day.”

He’ll never tire of telling people about the day he first met the girl of his dreams. In complete honesty, he doesn’t quite remember how that meeting occurred. All he remembers is that he was speeding around on the ice one day, trying to see how many girls he could make scream by whisking past them at a high speed, when his aunt called him over.

“Scott!” 

Scott heard his aunt’s voice, but he ignored her and continued racing around the rink. 

“Scott Patrick Moir!”

Scott huffed and skid to a halt at the boards where his aunt was standing with her arms crossed. There was a young girl standing next to her.

“Was it Mommy?” Scott’s daughter gasps. 

Scott winks. “The girl was so little--even smaller than you are right now. I still remember how she looked at me with those humongous eyes that were way too big for her tiny face. She had chestnut brown hair that was tied in pigtails. The pigtails already made her stand out--most of the girls had their hair tied back in a ponytail--but what made her stand out even more were the hair ties that she used. They had white pom poms on them. All I wanted to do was reach forward…” 

Scott’s daughter giggles as he reaches towards her hair. 

“... and yank on her pigtails,” he says as he tugs on his daughter’s hair lightly.

“Why?” she asks in the middle of short bursts of giggles. “That’s a mean thing to do!”

“I don’t know. I guess I was just silly and immature and thought it would be funny. I’m glad I didn’t do it, though. It’s a mean thing to do, just like you said.”

“Me too.”

“She was younger than me,” Scott recalls. “And she hadn’t been skating for as long as I had, but she was much better than I was. She skated faster, she jumped higher, she picked up tricks like that,” he says, snapping his fingers. His daughter fumbles with her fingers as she tries to imitate him. “I promised myself that I was going to quit skating before I turned 10, but once I started skating with her, I didn’t want to stop. I liked skating with her more than hockey. We decided to take it year by year, season by season. Both of us had the freedom to explore other interests. She still took dance classes after school. I was encouraged to take part in other sports as well. But I guess it just didn’t make sense to run off and play another sport when I could dance with a beautiful girl on the ice instead.”

“Wait,” his daughter says slowly. She turns to look Scott right in the eye. “I’ve heard this story before. This is how you met _Aunt Tessa_ \--not Mommy. Mommy didn’t even show up in this story!”

“ _Yet_. Your mom didn’t show up in this story _yet_.” His daughter glares at him. Scott shrugs. “I wouldn’t have met your mom had I not met Aunt Tessa.”

“So then how did you meet Mommy?”

Scott glances at the analog clock that is on the bedside table. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, peanut.” His daughter starts to protest but quiets down when he gives her a firm look. “It’s getting late. I promise I’ll continue the story tomorrow, ok?”

“Fine,” she huffs. She throws herself onto her back and pulls the blanket over her head. 

Scott stares at the lump that is curled up under the covers. Being strict was one of the harder parts of parenting. The need to discipline his daughter always conflicted with the fear that her daughter was going to hate him. Sighing, he walks away from the bed to switch off the lights, but not before switching on the night light. 

“Good night, sweetie,” he calls out into the darkness. 

When there isn’t an immediate response, Scott’s heart sinks. But then, he hears a muffled “Good night, Daddy” followed by a soft but clear “I love you,” and all's right with the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness! With all of the amazing works of fan-fiction out there in this fandom, I was not expecting such positive reviews from you guys. I was very surprised to find that people had not only read this story, but also left such supportive, sweet comments. I didn't get to reply to any of the comments this time round, but I promise I will try to do so from this chapter onwards. Thank you all so much, once again! I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as well :)

“Daddy.”

Scott groans and rolls onto his stomach. He feels a cold palm land softly on his cheek.

“Daddy. Wake up. I’m hungry.”

Scott waves his hand around blindly. After several failed attempts, and the whacking of the side of his daughter’s head, Scott’s hand finally lands on a pile of soft, disheveled hair.

“Hey, peanut,” he croaks, ruffling her hair up a bit.

“ _Da-ad_ ,” she complains. 

His eyes are still sealed shut, but Scott knows that his daughter is using her palm to smooth out her hair. Not wanting her to know that he is awake, Scott cautiously peels just one of his eyes open. Like he predicted, his daughter is using her stubby fingers to gently untangle the knots that had formed in her hair overnight. Scott winces when he spots a particularly large one. Getting ready that morning was _not_ going to be fun.

“Can I please take her to the hair salon?” Scott pleads once he finally rolls out of bed. “Her hair is getting too long.”

“It’s not _that_ long, Scott. Besides, she got a haircut two weeks ago. She doesn’t need to get another one yet.”

Scott puts his phone on speaker, tosses it onto the kitchen counter, and starts to dig around for the ingredients to make his daughter’s favorite breakfast: birthday cake pancakes.

“But the ends keep getting all knotted up in her sleep,” he argues. Scott still doesn’t quite understand how that happens. Do the strands of hair decide to participate in some Cirque du Soleil show in the middle of the night or something?

“Did you use conditioner when you washed her hair last night?”

Scott’s actions come to a screeching halt. “Oh, so _that’s_ what I forgot to buy,” he mutters to himself, half of his body looking like he’s about to dive into the fridge. 

_“That’s why there’s something called a grocery list, Scott,”_ Tessa would have told him.

“That’s what I thought. Look, if you ran out, just use Tessa’s until you have time to go to the grocery store, ok?”

Scott almost drops the carton of eggs that he is transporting back to the kitchen counter. “She doesn’t… Tessa doesn’t… she… we don’t…” he stutters.

A snort echoes throughout the kitchen. “Come on, Scott. What are we, fifteen?”

* * *

Fifteen. That’s the age Scott’s brain finally caught up with his heart.

Scott doesn’t know what triggered the sudden realization. Was it the makeup that Tessa was experimenting with? Was it because the only thing his friends talked about were dating hot girls? Or was it the undeniable fact that Tessa’s body was… changing?

Scott doesn’t know why his brain finally got the memo that he has a crush on Tessa, but he does remember lying in bed one night after practice, thinking, _I think I like Tessa. Like… like like her._

If his heart had eyes, it would have rolled them slowly and exasperatedly and said, _No, sh--_

Scott’s hands, which were cutting the pancakes up into smaller pieces, freeze. He whips his head towards his daughter, who is staring at him expectantly.

“No… no _duh_ ,” he stutters. “If my heart had eyes, it would have rolled them slowly and exasperatedly and said, _‘No duh, brainy.’_ ”

Scott’s daughter smiles innocently, cocking her head to the side. She blinks a couple of times, as if she’s debating whether or not to let her dad off the hook. Finally, she asks, “So what happened after that?”

 _Huh_ , Scott thinks. _What did happen after that?_

“Nothing,” he shrugs.

“Nothing?”

He nods. He slides the plate of pancakes towards his daughter. Instead of digging into her food, she looks at Scott with a confused expression on her face. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for the next fifteen years or so, I dated other girls. Jessica, Cassandra, Kaitlyn…”

Scott’s daughter wrinkles her nose. It makes her look like a baby rabbit. “You dated Tommy’s mom?”

“Oh! Oh no, no, no,” Scott chuckles. “Not _that_ Kaitlyn. Another Kaitlyn.”

“Oh,” she sighs in relief. She shoves a piece of pancake in her mouth and chews it thoughtfully. “But if you like liked Aunt Tessa, why didn’t you just date her?”

And there it was: the question that Scott had asked himself way too many times for more than half his life.

People always viewed Tessa as the logical one and Scott as the more emotional one, but he did, too, have some logic in his system, believe it or not. Even as a hormonal teenager, Scott understood that acting on his feelings could have disastrous consequences.

Hell, it _did_ have disastrous consequences.

It affected his focus, for one. After he (finally) figured out that he had a crush on Tessa, there was a period of time when Scott could barely look Tessa in the eye, let alone touch her. It was as if they were seven and nine again, except this time, the roles were reversed: Scott’s cheeks were the ones that were burning up every time they had to hold hands, and Tessa was the one who was joking around in an attempt to dissipate the awkward tension that was between them.

Even now, Scott blames himself for them not qualifying for the 2006 Olympics.

Maybe he started dating other girls in that hopes that he’d be able to see Tessa as little Tutu again rather than the beautiful woman she blossomed into over the years if he dated some other girl. Whenever he has regrets about not acting on his feelings for Tessa earlier, Scott reasons that--

“That if you had dated Aunt Tessa when you were a teenager, you wouldn’t have been able to get to the 2010, 2014, and 2018 Olympics,” Scott’s daughter says, her voice as flat as her pancakes. “I _know_. I heard this part before. Now can we please get to the part of the story where Mommy appears?”

“We’re getting there.”

Scott’s daughter throws her head back and groans.

* * *

All three Olympics that Scott competed in were special, each for different reasons. 

2010 was special because it was held in Vancouver. 

2014 was special because, as painful as it was, his relationship with Tessa grew stronger afterwards. 

2018 was special because…

Well, 2018 was special for a couple of different reasons.

February 2018 is a month that Scott will never forget. It’s the month that he and Tessa fly across the globe to attend their third Olympics together; it’s the month that he gets to stand next to Tessa on the podium with matching gold medals hanging from their necks twice, and it’s the month when he thinks that he and Tessa can finally, _finally_ become more than “business partners.”

There’s just one problem: Tessa doesn’t want to put a label on their relationship until the Olympics are over.

“But the Olympics _are_ over. You guys won the team event, won the individuals, dazzled the crowd at the gala…”

“I _know_ ,” Scott slurs. His cheek pressed against the wooden table, he stretches his arm out towards the glass of whisky that is in front of him. It may be because he’s drunk, but no matter how far he stretches his arm, his fingers don’t reach the glass. 

“That’s enough, Scott.”

Scott lifts his head. He’d been shocked when he learned that the human head weighs about 5 kg during science class, because his head had never felt all that heavy to him. Now, he feels like his head weighs about three times its actual weight. Nonetheless, he heaves his head off of the table and turns it so that he is looking directly at the woman that has just denied him his alcohol. His vision is so blurry that he can’t even make out where her neck ends and her face starts. The one thing he can make out, though, is the necklace that is dangling from her neck. It’s a gold angel.

 _Angel..._ , Scott thinks wistfully. _Tessa looks like an angel…_

“She doesn’t want to label our relationship until this is over,” Scott does his best to explain. “Like… like she doesn’t want to decide whether we’re… skating partners that t--touch or… or boyfriend and girlfriend until this… all of this…” Unable to find the words to finish his sentence, Scott simply waves his hands around a couple of times before slamming them back onto the table and resting his chin on top of them.

“Have you asked her why?”

“Something about… different… not… skating… show…”

Scott then blacks out.

* * *

Over the years, Scott has slept in countless hotel rooms. Therefore, he knows when the sheets that he is sleeping on are hotel sheets.

He also knows what it feels like to sleep on hotel sheets _naked_.

Scott’s eyes fly open. Fortunately, he (or whoever had deposited him in the hotel room) had closed the curtains, so the room was still somewhat dark. The dull throb in his head intensifies as he props himself up with his elbows. By the time he is sitting upright, the throbbing has evolved to an intense pounding. He groans and rubs his eyes a couple of times before taking in the state of the hotel room.

The first thing he notices are his clothes that are all over the place. His shirt is draped theatrically on the chair of the tea table and his pants had barely made it past the doorway. He’s fairly certain he’d had socks on too, but they are nowhere to be found. 

Keeping the sheets wrapped around his body (even though he is fairly certain no one else is there), he swings his legs around and lets them dangle off the edge of the bed. He notices that someone has left a bottle of water and a box of medicine that has Korean written all over it on the bedside table. He turns the box over multiple times in his hand. There’s one word he recognizes: ibuprofen. 

He should be celebrating--and to a certain extent, he is--but dread seeps into every cell in his body. There is no way he went to a pharmacy and bought ibuprofen while he was drunk, which can only mean one thing: there was someone else in the hotel room last night.

But who was she? Or was it a he? They? He thinks he remembers talking to a woman at some point, but the last thing he remembers is his head hitting the hard surface of the bar table. What had happened after that?

He rubs the side of his head absentmindedly. He has no idea what happened between his god-knows-how-many-th shot and right this moment. However, he does know one thing for sure: he needs to get rid of the pulsing in his head if he’s ever going to make sense of what happened. Even the one ray of sunlight that is creeping in through the tiny gap between the curtains is too much for his eyes, so he squeezes them shut and pats around for the medicine with his hands. Instead of the painkillers, his hand comes to contact with the bottle of water and successfully knocks it onto the carpeted floor. 

Swearing, Scott peels his eyes open and hunches down. That’s when he notices it: a piece of hastily folded up piece of paper that must have been swept off of the table when he knocked the bottle of water over. The pounding in his head muffles just enough for him to read the note.

 _Hi Scott_ , the note reads. _I would have taken you back to your room, but I honestly have no idea where you are staying. I didn’t realize how big Olympic Village was until I looked at the map so that I could take you back. After you wash up, give Tessa or Chiddy a call so that they know that you’re ok, will you?_

Scott reads the note again as he forces the pill down his throat, and once more after he takes a cold shower. 

The note contains several hints as to who the mystery person could be.

First of all, the handwriting is unnaturally neat. It closely resembles calligraphy. It is also, Scott thinks, fairly unique, especially if this person writes like this on a daily basis. He thinks that he would be able to recognize this handwriting if he were to see it anywhere else.

But then, what are the chances that he’ll see something written by the mystery person ever again?

He moves onto the second hint, which is his name. Whoever this mystery person was knew him, or at least knew of him.

But then, there are too many people that know him at this point: fans, fellow athletes, volunteers… 

Growing increasingly frustrated, Scott squints down at the note again. 

That’s when he sees it, the biggest hint of all: _Chiddy_.

Whoever this person was, though Scott does suppose fans would know that Patrick Chan’s nickname is Chiddy, knows Chiddy and possibly Tessa. If this mystery person was just a random fan or athlete that didn’t know him or his friends personally, he or she would have simply told him to call his friends, right?

At least, that’s the only reasoning that Scott’s hungover brain can come up with.

* * *

“And that is the end of Chapter 2,” Scott announces as he clears the table. “Thank you for listening to the story, Miss…” He uses the fork as a pretend microphone and holds it out in front of his daughter.

Her face falls. “Can’t you tell me Chapter 3 of the story too?”

“No can do, kiddo,” Scott says. He loads the dishwasher and shuts it close with his foot. “We have to head over to the rink. Besides, if I tell you too much of the story now, I won’t have anything to tell you later.”

His daughter sighs, her shoulders rising and dropping dramatically as she does so. “But story-Scott hasn’t even met Mommy yet.”

“Who said story-Scott hasn’t met your mom yet?” Scott winks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you guys for reading this story! Please feel free to leave any comments down below. I love hearing from you guys!
> 
> Please also feel free to come find me on tumblr (maple-penny)!

**Author's Note:**

> To those of you that read till the end of this chapter...
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! As I said earlier, please feel free to leave any comments you have down below :)


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